


Every Dog Has Its Day

by fredbassett



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:18:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1889928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How can d’Artagnan carry on being a musketeer when at any minute he might end up tripping over his own ears?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Dog Has Its Day

**Author's Note:**

> The concluding part of the trilogy that began with Dogsbody and It's a Dog's Life. 
> 
> With thanks to bigtitch and evilmaniclaugh for being evil enablers
> 
> This was written for a prompt on the Dreamwidth Kink Meme that wanted d'Artagnan turned into a dog. Naturally that struck me as a good idea.

“You’re telling me that I turn into a dog?” D’Artagnan stared around the room at his friends, seeking – but not finding – some sign of humour in their faces.

“So it would appear,” Athos acknowledged.

“You’ve done it twice,” Porthos told him.

“Do you have no memory of it?” Aramis asked, no trace now of the habitual amusement that was never far from his eyes.

D’Artagnan shifted uncomfortably on the narrow wooden bed. He did have some memories that he found hard to explain and, despite the absurdity of it all, he found it hard to deny. Some of what they’d told him seemed vaguely familiar, like a once-vivid dream that quickly faded along with the shadows of night, to lurk just on the edges of conscious thought.

“You’ve been chewing a lot of bones,” Porthos commented.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” D’Artagnan said, even to is own ears failing to keep a note of desperation out of his voice. “You chew bones.” He was clutching at straws and he knew it. He could see the truth written on their faces and he was finding it hard not to waggle his arse seeking approval. In desperation, he squirmed uncomfortably and dropped his head into his hands, covering his face. The furrow carved by a pistol shot along one ear that he had no memory of receiving stood as mute testimony to something having happened of which he had scant memory.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll sort it out,” Porthos said, a quiet certainty in his voice that brought a feeling of calm to d’Artagnan, even though his rational mind knew there was no way his big friend had any actual means of making good his promise, but the words – and the tone of voice – were still a comfort. D’Artagnan fought against the sudden urge to turn his head and lick his friend’s hand.

They were telling the truth, he knew they were, but what he didn’t know, and nor did they, was how this had come to be or what they could possibly do that would make things right again. He could hardly carry on as a King’s Musketeer if, at any moment, he could end up tripping over his own ears and pissing on the floor.

“I do have some memories,” d’Artagnan admitted, without looking at anyone. Then one in particular intruded, involving something a little worse than floors, and he jerked his head jerked upright as he stared at Athos in embarrassment.

Athos made a small, dismissive gesture with one hand. “Think nothing of it. I seem to recall puking on you on at least one occasion.”

“More than once,” d’Artagnan muttered, more to cover his own mortification than through any rancour. He’d been told by several people that being puked on by Athos was a right of passage that all new recruits had to endure.

“We need to tell Treville,” Aramis said, looking at d’Artagnan with sympathy in his eyes.

“No!” D’Artagnan had worked too hard to become a musketeer to throw it all away just because he couldn’t stop himself turning into a dog.

They’d work something out. They had to.

* * * * *

“Are you certain this is a good idea?” Athos asked, his hand resting lightly on his sword hilt as he stared around at the assorted beggars and cut-purses watching their every step as they made their way into the Court of Miracles.

“Have you got a better one?” Porthos retorted, flipping a coin to a one-armed child playing knucklebones in the dirt. The child –so dirty unkempt that it was impossible to tell whether it was male of female – caught and pocketed the coin without even taking its eyes off the game.

“Sadly, no.”

“Then it’s the best idea we’ve got.” Porthos glanced down at the child. “Tell the Queen that Porthos is here to see her.”

Without a word, the grubby infant gathered up the polished bones and stowed them somewhere in its ragged garments before scuttling out of sight down a rat-infested alley, piled high with rotting vegetables and excrement. D’Artganan had seen poverty before, but there was an underlying malevolence about the area that made his skin scrawl. Here King’s Musketeers were regarded with open hostility, and he knew it would take very little to kindle a spark in the midst of this stew of criminal pollution. And if that happened, they would stand as much chance of getting out alive as a cat in a dog-fighting ring.

“Whatever you see, don’t get involved,” Aramis warned. “And try not to make eye-contact. We’re here under sufferance only because Porthos is known in the Court.”

D’Artagnan nodded, doing his best to keep a grimace off his face as he trod on something that broke apart with a nasty crunch and an even nastier smell. His sense of smell seemed to have become almost unbearably heightened, and it was hard to walk through the noxious miasma that passed for air in the depth of Paris’ most notorious slum.

A sudden cry of pain to one side made him swivel around, his hand reaching instinctively for the hilt of his sword. An old woman was backed into a doorway, her hands thrown up around her face as she fended off a series of missiles thrown by a group of children dressed in rags, bare feet squelching in the muck of the street.

“Leave her!” The words were out of d’Artagnan’s mouth before he stopped to think.

A groan from beside him told him exactly what Aramis thought of his intervention. “What part of ‘don’t get involved’ was difficult to understand?” his friend asked in an urgent undertone.

D’Artagnan shrugged and faced off against the feral children who were circling the old woman like a pack of dogs that had just brought a wounded stag to bay. The leader, a tall boy of no more than twelve, stared at him out of one eye, glittering bright with malice. The other was nothing more than an empty socket surrounded by pink scar tissue. A broken knife-blade wrapped around with a strip of leather was clutched firmly in one filthy hand.

“None o’ yer business, musketeer,” he said before spitting a large gobbet of phlegm in the woman’s direction. “Your kind ain’t welcome ‘ere.”

“The king’s law still holds good here,” d’Artagnan said.

“Bollocks. Take yer king’s law and shove it up yer arse.” The boy stared at him with undisguised hostility.

He drew back his arm as if to throw the knife, but before d’Artagnan could act, a shrill whistle split the air. The boy turned his head sharply, his one eye staring around for the source of the noise.

The child that Porthos had thrown the coin to stood at the corner of the street, hands on skinny hips, a look of contempt on a face that suddenly seemed older than its years, even though d’Artagnan still couldn’t determine whether he was looking at a boy or a girl.

“The Queen says leave ‘em alone or she’ll ‘’ang you wiv yer own guts.” The words were delivered with a hard-eyed stare that rivalled anything Athos was capable of dispensing. “And leave ‘er alone as well. Queen’s orders.” The child jerked its head in the direction of the watching musketeers and walked off without turning back to see if they were following or not.

The gang of children stood back to let them pass, sullen anger on their face at being thwarted, but not daring to challenge the orders they’d been given. A moment later, they all melted away into the shadows of the street. D’Artagnan pulled a linen scarf from around his neck and held it out the old woman still huddled in the doorway. A stone had opened a gash on her cheek and bloody trickled sluggishly down her nut-brown skin.

She stared at him through narrowed eyes before reaching out her hand and plucking the scarf from his grasp with a grimy hand that looked more like a monkey’s paw. With a grimace of pain, she dabbed at her cheek and muttered something under her breath that d’Artagnan couldn’t make out but which seemed strangely familiar.

“D’Artagnan!” Porthos’ summons broke into his thoughts.

With an apologetic smile at the woman, he turned to hurry after his friends. It wouldn’t do to become separated from them in this of all places. Not when it appeared that they might have gained some much-needed protection.

* * * * *

“I will see what I can find out for you.”

To d’Artagnan’s amazement, the Queen of the Court of Miracles had betrayed neither surprise nor amusement at the tale Porthos had just told. She’d listened, asked no questions, but had given the distinct impression that this was by no means the strangest tale she’d ever heard.

“Thanks, Flea.” Porthos bowed deeply and touched his lips to the back of her hand.

“I can make no promises,” she said softly.

Porthos smiled widely at her. “We know that, but if there is an answer to be found, I’ll wager you’ll find it.”

“Don’t bet coin you don’t have on the outcome.”

But despite the lack of answers, d’Artagnan was still lighter of heart on his way back to the garrison than he had been on the walk to the Court. The festering slums seemed less oppressive and there were fewer hostile eyes trained on them. The news that they were under the protection of the Queen had spread as quickly as clap in a brothel. The hard-eyed young woman was clearly a force to be reckoned with.

By the time they returned to the training yard, Serge was ladling out steaming bowls of mutton stew and the smell made d’Artagnan’s mouth water. He was tempted to ask the cook for a bone to chew afterwards but a jab in the ribs from Porthos brought that train of thought to an abrupt end.

Treville was at the palace and no orders had been left for them, so d’Artagnan took advantage of the time to work on his sword-play but it quickly became apparent that Athos was not minded to press him too hard, no doubt not wanting to inadvertently trigger whatever caused the rapid and unfathomable transition to a shorter-legged, furrier form, more suited to lolling in the sunlight than to sparring with the best swordsman in the Regiment.

By late afternoon, nothing more exciting than a bee-sting on Jacques the stable lad’s arse when he was using the privy had enlivened the rest of the day. It was too hot for strenuous activity, and not even the prospect of a brawl with the Red Guard would have raised any of them from a state of unaccustomed but decidedly pleasant apathy.

They sprawled out at ease on one side of the yard, yelling encouragement and insults to any of their fellow soldiers who felt able to brave the heat for some weapons practise. D’Artagnan leaned back against one of the wooden pillars, eyes closed, well on the way to drifting off to sleep, despite the plague of unwelcome thoughts that persisted in buzzing around in his mind like a plague of angry hornets.

A loud and familiar whistle brought him sharply out of his lethargy and he opened his eyes to find that the filthy, one-armed child from the Court of Miracles was standing in the entrance to the training yard, looking wary.

Porthos stood up quickly and crossed the yard in long strides, returning with the child at his side. When covetous eyes were cast at the remains of their mid-day meal – bread, cheese and some apples – Porthos pushed the wooden platter in the direction of their visitor and poured some watered wine into a battered pewter mug.

The child ate with the single-minded determination of a street cur who’d happened on a juicy carcass. Strong, surprisingly white teeth tore are the bread, and the nut-brown hand clutched the somewhat sweaty cheese until there was enough space in its mouth to accommodate cheese as well as bread. The musketeers in the yard continued about their business, sparing their visitor barely a glance, no doubt assuming that this was an informer receiving some recompense for its labours.

When the platter had been cleared and the flagon drained, the child fixed Porthos with a pair of bright, intelligent eyes, pale like a sheepdog d’Artagnan’s father had once owned. His mother had always claimed that pale-eyed dogs could see evil, and he wondered if that was true of their visitor.

“Message from the Queen, for yer,” it announced.

Porthos nodded and waited for the child to speak.

“Your companion has a good heart, and that’s lucky for him.”

The voice that issued from the ragged child’s scabbed mouth made the hair on the back of d’Artganan’s neck stand on end, as though he was still in the body of a dog and his hackles were rising at something strange an unaccountable. The child spoke not in its own voice but in that of the woman Porthos had addressed as Flea. The pale eyes glittered with amusement at the surprise that had taken up residence on all their faces.

“It’ll happen to him once more, there’s no helping that. But three time’s the charm an’ no mistake. He’ll be right as owt after that. But there’s no ‘elping the third time. Best that can be done is that he’ll keep his own mind. And once that’s done, he’d better be careful who his horse splatters with mud in future.” The child grinned, picked its nose with a grubby, bitten nail, and flicked the results of its excavation onto the straw-strewn floor. “What’s that worth, then?” the queen’s envoy demanded, reverting to the voice of a guttersnipe.

D’Artagnan pulled a coin from the purse at his belt and pushed it across the table to the child, in awe of the gift of mimicry that the ragged young creature had demonstrated. “The message is most welcome.”

The one-armed child’s eyes betrayed surprise at the gold that glinted in the afternoon sun. A heartbeat later, as quick as a striking snake, its hand shot out and the coin vanished into the rags that served as clothing.

Without another word or backwards glance, the grimy messenger sauntered out of the garrison, seemingly unbothered by four pairs of thoughtful eyes that followed its progress.

D’Artagnan, contemplating a third return to a small, furry body with over-sized paws and ridiculously long, floppy ears, wasn’t sure whether to be elated or downcast.

For Porthos, life was simpler. He clapped d’Artagnan heavily on the back. “Could be worse,” he declared. “All we have to do is keep you out of trouble once more. How hard can that be?”

D’Artagnan groaned.

Tempting fate really wasn’t a good idea, not in his condition.

* * * * *

The heat wave showed no signs of abating. Nor did their current stint of guard duty at the palace. Yet another brawl with the Red Guard had earned them their captain’s opprobrium as well as the cardinal’s displeasure, so it fell to them to stand around in the blistering sun while the queen and her ladies lounged in the shade in the formal gardens of the palace while sweating servants waved enormous fans and tried to ignore their own discomfort.

D’Artagnan and his fellow musketeers had taken it in turns during a long, uncomfortably hot afternoon to make endless treks around the neatly clipped hedges, making a show of inspecting the shrubberies for anyone of nefarious purpose, but in reality taking every opportunity to splash water from the fountains over the back of their necks and gulp down some liquid, doing their best to stave off the dehydration that was so common on this and other duties at the palace.

The grass was short and distinctly yellow in places, scorched by the sun, but by one of the fountains a patch of lusher greenery betokened a leak from a joint in the stonework. D’Artagnan had passed that way only recently, but as he knelt on the soft grass to splash water onto his face, he found he was staring down at the mark of a boot in the grass that had not been there before, and none of his fellow musketeers had passed this way since he had last chosen this direction

Before his hand could grip the hilt of his sword, sudden pain burst in the back of d’Artagnan’s skull, and he toppled forward, face first into the shallow pond. A moment later, darkness swallowed the turmoil of his thoughts.

* * * * *

Porthos glanced towards the serried ranks of hedgerows that led down to the maze where the queen and her ladies would often amuse themselves with visitors to the extensive grounds of the Louvre. A movement caught his eye and he turned, expecting to see d’Artagnan returning from his circuit of the grounds, but found himself staring at nothing more than one of the bad-tempered peacocks that strutted around the grounds looking even haughtier than the cardinal.

The bird shook itself, gave a harsh cry like a man with a broken leg dragging himself over shards of glass, and stalked off at a faster than usual pace.

“What’s ruffled its feathers?” Aramis remarked under his breath, casting a sidelong glance at his companion.

Porthos shrugged. “I’ll take a look.”

It was probably nothing more than a fox, but with the sweat running in rivulets down his back, he was glad of a chance to do something more than simply stand around, frying in the sun.

“The whelp should have returned by now,” Athos said in an undertone, his features as blandly impassive as usual.

Porthos knew better than to question Athos’ statement. They all had a nose for trouble, but he often felt that Athos had a danger sense that bordered on the unnatural. He nodded and moved off quickly, drawing his pistol as soon as he was out of sight of the queen and her ladies. He’d barely moved out of sight beneath an archway of greenery when another peacock burst into view, feathers distinctly ruffled. With his pistol in his left hand and his sword in his right, Porthos crouched down so his head would no longer show above the hedge, and edged forwards.

The crack of a musket shot told him that Athos had been right to expect trouble. Porthos sprang forward, toward the source of the noise as two figures came crashing towards him through a gap in the hedge. A high-pitched scream, rapidly silenced, came from behind him, but that was not Porthos’ problem. Athos and Aramis would guard the queen with their lives and the noise would bring other guards from the palace. His issue was with the two men, bandanas masking the lower half of their faces, coming at him, swords and daggers drawn, clearly not intending to waste pistol shot on him, but expecting to overpower him by superior numbers.

He grinned and stepped up to meet them.

The sound of more weapons discharging nearby betokened a serious assault. Porthos knew he had to finish this, and fast. He stood his ground, meeting the first man sword against sword. The man was shorter than him by a head, but had arms like tree trunks and the force of his blade succeeded in driving Porthos’ rapier off line. His grin turned feral. He liked a challenge, but not when his queen was in danger.

Pivoting from the hip, Porthos kicked out at the second man, who had been expecting to attack from the rear while he was otherwise engaged. His booted foot connected hard with his assailant’s knee, knocking his leg from under him. Porthos parried his first attacker’s blade with a swipe that owed more to brute strength than the skill Athos always exhibited, even under the direst pressure. The move bought him a moment’s respite and he used it to stamp down hard on the second man’s knee. He felt the joint pop and heard a scream that rivalled anything issuing from the throats of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting.

The man might have been down, but he certainly wasn’t out. His sword swept like a scythe at Porthos’ legs. Porthos drew his legs up, jumping the blade, whilst blocking another vicious strike from the other man.

This was taking too fucking long, Porthos thought.

He needed both the men out of the fight, and he had to get back to Athos and Aramis. He’d counted another six weapons’ discharges, one from a distance and the rest at closer range. He had no idea how many were in the attacking group, but he didn’t like the sound of what was happening around him.

Porthos drew his foot back to kick the man on the ground in the head but then another pistol was fired, the report loud even above the screaming, and he felt a sudden flare of red-hot agony in one arm.

Not good…

* * * * *

D’Artagnan took a gasping breath. Water promptly flooded his nose and mouth. He sneezed violently, blowing out through his nose and trying to twist his head so that he could breathe. He coughed, sneezed again, and scrabbled with two large front paws to pull himself out of the pond while his hind legs flailed around to little good effect as water continued to sprinkle down on him from the fountain in the middle.

Eventually, he flopped down on his belly on the grass, chest heaving. His head hurt and it didn’t take much intellect to work out that this was the third time that would supposedly pay for all. He was back in the ungainly body of a puppy. He could hear scream, shots and a commanding voice – Athos – telling someone to put up their weapon. A heartbeat later, a pistol shot made it seem likely that the instruction had not been obeyed.

D’Artagnan gathered his ridiculously oversized paws up underneath him and pushed until he was upright. His fur was soaked and he gave in to an irresistible urge to shake himself, scattering water drops everywhere and damn nearly knocking himself out with his own absurd ears. The movement didn’t do much for the pain in his head, either, but despite the paws, the ears and the droopy belly, he was still a King’s Musketeer, and his queen was in danger.

Allowing the part of his brain that remembered how to be a dog to take over seemed like the best idea, as trying to consciously direct four paws at once was too much for him in his current slightly dazed state. D’Artagnan broke into a lumbering run, heading for the noise of the gunshots, knowing that his friends would be in the thick of the fighting.

He rounded a corner of the hedge and barrelled straight into the middle of trouble.

Porthos was rolling on the ground locked in a desperate close-quarter battle with two men. Blood was smeared over his studded jacket and from the smell, d’Artagnan knew that not all of it had come from his adversaries. The big man was wounded and the other two were trying hard to press home their advantage, regardless of the fact that one of them was lying on the ground, his face contorted into a rictus of pain and anger as one leg seemed unable to bear his weight.

Teeth bared, d’Artagnan threw himself into the fray. He was outmatched in height, weight and reach, so he made up for it by biting down hard on the man’s injured knee, hoping the pain would impede his assault on Porthos. As a distraction, it worked long enough for Porthos to free his good arm and throw the other man off him to crash into one of the hedges.

The man whose knee d’Artagnan was biting screamed loudly and hit out at him with a dagger clenched in one gloved hand. D’Artagnan saw the blow coming and rolled away. The knife dug into the grass next to one long, floppy ear, missing skewering it to the ground by the thickness of no more than a thumb. He scrabbled away, barking loudly, doing his best to provide another distraction while Porthos hammered his fist into the man’s face.

“Nice one, little fella,” Porthos panted.

The big musketeer jumped to his feet and finished what he’d started by slamming the hilt of his dagger into the man’s temple, then crossing the short grass in three long strides to do the same to his other assailant who was just coming up to his knees and reaching for his pistol.

Porthos grabbed the firearm as it fell from the man’s nerveless fingers. Equally quickly, he took possession of the other weapon held at his waist, checked that it had not been discharged, and added it to his own collection of weaponry.

He looked down at d’Artagnan and a frown drew his brows together. “You’re hurt.” He bent down and gently touch the back of d’Artagnan’s head. “There’s blood.”

D’Artagnan barked in assent. He knew he was hurt, but there’d be time to worry about that later.

Fortunately, Porthos appeared to understand that he still had plenty of fight left in him. His friend nodded and together they started to run in the direction of the queen and her ladies. D’Artagnan’s short, hairy legs were no match for Porthos’, but the sausage-shaped was capable of a surprising turn of speed provided he didn’t try to think too hard about what he was doing.

He burst out of the shrubbery not far behind Porthos. The women had retreated to the small pavilion and from what d’Artagnan could see from nearly ground level, his fellow musketeers were now engaged in close quarter combat with at least six attackers. The attack had come out of the blue, with no rumours circulating of an attempt on the life of the queen, but the men were well armed and clearly determined.

Athos was currently holding two men at bay at the point of his sword, but he was hard-pressed, and being forced steadily to give ground. Aramis was similarly engaged, and appeared to have taken a wound to his thigh.

Porthos threw himself into the fray against the remaining two who had reached the pavilion and were attempting to gain entrance, with only the palace servants currently blocking their way.

D’Artagnan ran straight at the legs of one of the men facing Athos, barrelling into the back of his knees, throwing him off balance. Athos capitalised immediately on his opponent’s unsteadiness, his sword flashing in an instant to the man’s throat while D’Artagnan continued his headlong flight, heedless now of what was happening behind him, intent only on reaching the queen.

His paws were surprisingly powerful for such a small and generally ungainly creature, carrying him between the legs of one of the men now grappling with Porthos. He turned and jumped up, biting the man on the leg, just above the wide top of his leather boot. The man howled in pain and was distracted long enough to lash out at d’Artagnan with his sword, but he had already jumped out of the way, long ears flapping.

His presence in the fight had been well and truly noticed now, and a sword flashed inside the pavilion, striking through the flapping drapes, aiming a killing blow at his back. D’Artagnan scrabbled with all four paws flying to avoid the blow. He shot away, under one of the tables laden with food and drink.

At the same moment, the queen snatched up a glass decanter and threw it at the man who had tried to dismember d’Artagnan. He barked approval and hurled himself back into the fight, doing what he did best and weaving between the assassin’s legs, sending him sprawling onto the ground, still holding onto his sword. D’Artagnan launched himself at the man, grabbing hold of his wrist and biting down as hard as he could, worrying at the fresh as if it was a particularly juicy bone. He tasted the tang of blood and bit down harder.

A fist slammed into the side of his head, but he refused to relinquish his hold. To do that would be to expose the queen to even greater risk. A second blow forced a desperate whine from his throat. He had to hold on until one of the others reached him…

He had to hold on…

The man rolled over, taking d’Artagnan with him, slamming his chubby body into the ground. He bit down as hard as he could and simply held on. He knew his duty, even if it was going to be the death of him.

* * * * *

Porthos shouldered his way through the rich draperies of the tent, cursing under his breath as the material flapped in his face, temporarily obscuring his view. He’d lost his sword in the fight outside the pavilion, but he still had his dagger and the musket he’d taken from one of the attackers in the fight in the garden. One shot, and it would have to count.

He arrived to find the assassin who’d got closest to the queen rolling on the ground, slamming the body of the puppy – d’Artagnan, he reminded himself – against the sturdy leg of one of the tables. With a whimper that made Porthos’ heart lurch in his chest, the small, battered dog finally relinquished its hold and fell limply to the ground.

With a roar, the man who’d just succeeded in throwing off his small opponent reached for the sword he’d dropped, but his cry of triumph was drowned out by the report of Porthos’ pistol in the close confines of the pavilion. One of the queen’s ladies screamed, but the queen herself stood tall amongst them, unafraid and proud, watching as the man slumped back onto the ground.

As soon it was clear that the man Porthos had shot would not be getting up again, she swept the still form of the puppy up into her arms, heedless of the blood that stained the front of her dress.

“I have taken no harm,” she told him. “I will see what can be done for our small friend. Do what you need to do.”

Porthos swept her a clumsy bow, his injured right arm hanging awkwardly at his side. “Your Majesty.”

When he ducked back out of the tent, the formal garden was swarming with a detachment of Red Guards and he could see Richelieu some distance away, black robes flapping like a crow’s wings as he hurried towards them down the gravel path. Athos had disarmed the last of the attackers and the cardinal’s men were busy securing him. Aramis had dealt with the man he’d been facing, retrieved his hat and was limping over to them.

“Our furry friend?” he asked quietly, his eyes flickering to the pavilion.

“With the queen,” Porthos replied. “He’s taken quite a battering, but he’s a tough ‘un. You’d best take a look, though. He’s ‘ad a few nasty knocks courtesy of them bastards.”

Aramis nodded.

As Athos issued orders to the Red Guards to ensure they properly secured the surviving assassins for later questioning, Aramis and Porthos went back into the tent, plastering warm, reassuring smiles on their faces in the hope of easing the fright the queen, her ladies and their servants had taken. Porthos noted with approval that the servants had all armed themselves as best they could with bottles, cutlery and in one case, a broken plate. He nodded approval at the young lad who was clutching it whilst still staring in shock at the body of the man Porthos had shot in the chest.

The queen was seated in a chair, the puppy cradled in her arms, while one of her ladies in waiting gently wiped the bloodied bump at the back of his head and another one wiped more blood from his side. Porthos found himself torn between concern for his friend and his hope that d’Artagnan would remain in his current form at least a while longer. Explaining to the queen – and indeed to the cardinal – why a prostrate musketeer was draped over her majesty’s lap in place of a small, helpless-looking puppy would not be easy. But that same helpless-looking pup had managed to create considerable chaos amongst what appeared to have been a well-planned attack.

“Your Majesty.” Aramis swept off his hat and executed a deep, courtly bow, despite the blood staining his thigh. “Are you injured?” he asked solicitously.

“The blood is not mine,” Queen Anne said, stroking the puppy’s ears. “This brave creature was determined that no harm would come to me.” She turned the full force of her smile on the two musketeers. “You have an addition to your ranks, gentlemen,” she said, her smile brightening even more as the puppy let out a wheezing sigh and opened his eyes to blink blearily up at her out of dark, long-lashed eyes.

Aramis went to one knee beside her and examined the small dog’s head with gentle fingers and then ran his hands carefully over his chest and flanks, noting when his friend flinched away from the touch. D’Artagnan’s tongue lolled out of his mouth and gave Aramis’ hand a feeble lick. The puppy’s tongue was dry, as was his black nose. The little animal coughed again.

“Water for my friend,” the queen commanded.

One of her ladies hurried to do her bidding, bringing water in a silver goblet. The queen lifted the puppy – damn it, Porthos didn’t know whether to think of him as d’Artagnan or as the small dog they’d all taken turns to spoil in the garrison yard – and Aramis took the goblet and held it to the puppy’s mouth.

The long pink tongue curled out and lapped gratefully at the water.

“Not too much, little whelp,” Aramis said softly, affection in his voice.

The sound of horse’s hooves scattering the gravel outside the pavilion betokened the arrival of King Louis, his hunting in the nearby parkland no doubt rudely curtailed by the sound of gunfire in the palace gardens.

“My Queen, how dare they attack my Queen?” The king’s voice was frantic with concern. “Is she hurt? I cannot bear harm to come to Anne! I shall not allow it!”

Porthos heard Athos reassuring the king that no harm had come to the queen, but mindful of the blood liberally smearing the front of her gold and white dress, Aramis moved quickly to the doorway, saying quickly, “Your Majesty, the blood is not the Queen’s…”

Louis burst into the tent, staring in horror at his queen’s besmirched dress. Behind him hurried the cardinal, flanked by Captain Treville and Athos.

Anne stood up, the puppy still cradled gently in her arms. A look of alarm settled on the puppy’s hairy face as the king advanced towards him. The queen smiled brightly at her husband and announced, “Your musketeers have gained an addition to their ranks!” Smiling brightly, she held her small charge out to Richelieu. “Be gentle with him, he has been hurt in our defence. He has the heart of a true musketeer!”

To Porthos’ lasting delight, Richelieu, looking like someone had just handed him a steaming turd, had no alternative other than to accept the damp, bloodied bundle of brown and white fur. The puppy gave a concerned whine, and promptly let loose an arching stream of piss that splattered over the front of the cardinal’s immaculate black robes. Holding the puppy at arm’s length while it continued to void its bladder, Richelieu glared around, expecting someone to relieve him of the bladder’s owner, but no one did.

The king clasped Queen Anne’s hands, his smile as bright as hers. “My musketeers have saved the life of my Queen! Captain Treville, I commend the bravery of your men.”

Waiting until he was sure d’Artagnan had managed to squeeze the last few drops out over the cardinal, Porthos took pity on his comrade in arms and stepped up to relieve Richelieu of his burden before the hero of the hour was summarily deposited on his wagging tail, despite the queen’s command. The puppy wriggled happily in his arms and licked a wet stripe up Porthos’ beard.

“I’ll remind you of that later,” he murmured.

The look Porthos found himself on the receiving end of from his captain left him wondering quite what rumours might have reached Treville’s ears. He met the stare with the blandest expression he was capable of mustering, and started to shuffle closer to the door, hoping he could make an exit before the situation turned awkward.

“Where’s d’Artagnan?” Treville demanded as the puppy wriggled bashfully in Porthos’ good arm.

“Checking the grounds,” answered Athos from the doorway, before a lie had the chance to form itself on Porthos’ lips.

“Treat my little friend well,” the queen said, her eyes dancing with mischief at the look of thunder on Richelieu’s countenance as he dabbed ineffectually at his damp robes with a lace-edged linen square.

Porthos bobbed his head and, clutching the puppy firmly to his chest, backed out of the pavilion, anxious to be anywhere other than under Treville’s sharp gaze.

“You can rest assured he’ll be well looked after, Your Majesty,” Aramis said, sweeping into another deep bow.

* * * * *

“Ow!”

“Stop wriggling!” Aramis said sternly. “You might be the only man in the history of the regiment to be commissioned twice, but you’ve still got at least one broken rib that I need to deal with and a lump the size of a peacock’s egg on the back of your head.”

Aramis pressed him back down onto the edge of the bed and continued to bind bandages tightly around his chest.

“You told the queen I’d be well looked after!”

“You are being well-looked after, you ungrateful whelp!”

“So you did know what you were doing when you pissed on the cardinal.” Athos said, amusement lightening the habitual severity of his expression.

D’Artagnan grinned up at him. “Knew what I was doing most of the time, but couldn’t always control myself.”

He remembered licking Porthos’ face as well, but he wasn’t going to admit to that, either. Although from the way Porthos was lounging against the wall, a wide smile on his face, d’Artagnan suspected he wasn’t the only one who remembered that particular gesture. But in his defence, he had licked Aramis’ hand as well, so he hadn’t been showing favouritism.

Now all they had to do was give a suitably edited report to Treville and hope that the incident could be drawn to a close…

“You four! My office, now!” barked Treville from the doorway.

D’Artagnan did his best to resist the almost overwhelming urge to whine pitifully and wondered if he had any chance of sneaking off to the privy first.


End file.
